“Well, you’d better get on and look at it, as I’ll be moving you on once it’s dark..”

  Isabella felt Zachariah start to burn with anger.

  “We’re just off, sir,” she said, pulling on Zachariah’s sleeve in the direction of the palace.

  Tall horse chestnuts lined the sandy gallop ahead, and St James’s Palace door glittered distantly behind trees on their left.

  “Come on, it’s not worth it. Let’s go.”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than there was a rumble of hooves and a grey horse, snatching at his bit, galloped past them. A thin scream left the mouth of its rider and hung on the damp air around them. Close behind came a man in uniform on a large chestnut charger which stumbled heavily, throwing the soldier to the ground. He didn’t rise. Isabella squinted into the gloom, trying to see what had happened to the first rider, but there was nothing except the murky blackness under the shadow of the trees. At the end of the gallop lay the entrance to Trafalgar Square, back the way they had come, its courtyard a solid sheet of ice despite the ton of salt sprinkled there.

  Isabella didn’t really make a decision. The rider had clearly been out of control. If that horse didn’t slow its headlong dash, horse and rider risked certain injury, if not death, on the ice. Isabella cared little for the rider, but she did care, very much, about the horse.

  Taking a running jump she swung herself into the saddle of the chestnut and in one movement had urged him off down the line of trees. Now she could see the other rider and she thanked heaven the horse ahead was slower and smaller than hers. She settled her chin into her chest and crouched forward, gaining on the runaway with every stride. Now she was parallel to the other rider and placing all her weight into one stirrup, praying it would hold, she leaned over and crooned to the terrified horse over the thuds of their hooves on the icy sand. Forty feet ahead she could see the icy courtyard and she pulled desperately on the runaway’s bridle, simultaneously turning her mount to the left. She almost screamed with pain as her right arm was almost pulled from its socket. But Isabella watched the other horse turn, as if in slow motion, change direction mid-air, and come to rest finally next to her horse’s heaving flank.

  She leapt from her horse and grabbed the runaway’s bridle, talking soothingly, trying to settle him. His eyes were still rolling and his nostrils flared so wide she could see red. Something had terrified him.

  “Are you all right?” Isabella asked.

  The rider was crying, her face hidden in her gloved hands. She nodded, her blonde hair catching on the collar of her tweed riding habit. Isabella helped her to unhook her leg and slide off. She was barely more than her own age, but with a delicate look about her, fine-featured with lightly drawn eyebrows which went up at the corner.

  “You saved me,” she gasped in a broken voice. “Thank you so very, very much.”

  There was a thunder of hooves and four horsemen pulled up, throwing themselves from their mounts.

  “Your Majesty. You are safe, thanks be to God,” said one, white-faced.

  The girl seemed to get herself under control.

  “Tyrwhitt. This girl saved me. It is her you should be thanking.”

  They all looked at Isabella, who was wishing she’d taken up Ruby’s offer of a bath that morning.

  She looked down.

  “It was all right, it was nothing. Anyone else would have done the same in my place.”

  “I’m not sure they would,” said the girl. “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. Tyrwhitt, please give her some money.”

  Isabella went to hold up her hand to say this wasn’t necessary, but a red-hot poker of pain shot up her right arm and she let out a gasp.

  In a moment the blonde girl had rushed to her side.

  “What is it? You are hurt. Please, sit down. Tyrwhitt, quickly …”

  But her concern came too late. Isabella’s last thought was how much she missed Bumblebee, before she fainted.

  Isabella woke, instinctively feeling for her money belt, but all she could feel under her fingers was soft, brushed cotton and the knobbles of her ribs. Opening her eyes she sat up. Where on earth was she? She looked at her feet moving beneath the cream and gold embroidered coverlet and felt the softness of the deep feather pillows on which she had been lying. She didn’t think she’d ever been so comfortable. Through the rich tapestries hanging around the bed she could see patterned wallpaper on which yellow and white daisies wound their way to the ceiling. A fire crackled in the grate and next to it was a small table laid with what looked, and smelt, like good things to eat. Her stomach rumbled and she sat up straighter, but in doing so she winced. Looking down she saw her right arm had been bandaged tightly and lay, like a dead bird, in a sling across her chest.

  She frowned. Well, that was no good. No money, no bag and now no right arm. Swallowing hard, she pushed her fear back down where it belonged. She mustn’t worry. Her bag must be with Zachariah or Midge, who would take care of it for her. Her money must have been taken when she was changed into this nightgown. Her bare feet sank into the thick blue carpet when she stood to look through the drawers of a bureau next to her bed.

  The first drawer contained clean underwear, the second, an assortment of clean handkerchiefs smelling of lavender, and in the third lay, untouched and intact, her money belt. Isabella nearly cried with relief.

  Still, this arm was a problem. She didn’t like the way the fingers of her hand were cold and how the nails had a blue tinge. If she’d had her bag with her she’d have been able to treat herself, but without it she’d have to make do with keeping her arm warm and moving.

  She sat in a deep chair next to the fire, and helped herself to one scone and then another, their sweetness and bulk driving away her tiredness. This was not a dream, then, she thought, blowing hard on her cup of tea. She must have been taken to the home of the girl on the horse. Very nice it was too.

  Taking her cup to the window, she could see the light outside was grey and the snow had started again, making it hard to see anything, but she thought she could just make out a great expanse of grass dotted with trees, their branches black against the snow. Was it morning or evening? There was no way of telling. Still, this was a very nice room and she was comfortable. It made a nice change from her blanket between Midge and Ruby, and having to listen to the little ones argue. She might as well enjoy it while she could, as, no doubt, she’d be out on her ear fairly soon.

  She checked the door was open, just in case. Outside was a long corridor, lined with portraits and thick crimson carpet, quite like the Moleseys’, except a much grander. . Heavy gold chairs placed at intervals, as if the corridors were so long one might run out of puff and need to sit down. Isabella smiled. If all the toffs spouted as much hot air as Lady Molesey did, they would need to.

  Closing the door, she made her way over to a bookcase. Next to it stood a beautiful white dressing table with cut-glass bottles full of things that looked as though they would smell nice. A large ostrich-feather powder puff sat next to a silver hairbrush. Reaching up, Isabella took down a brightly coloured book. It was covered with drawings of animals and she loved the detailed picture of the African lion, so different to the mountain lions of India to which she was used. Inside the cover was an inscription.

  “To my dearest Alix, on the very special day you were born. With fondest love, your Papa.”

  Slowly, as if through cobwebs, Isabella felt her brain start to work. After she’d stopped the runaway horse hadn’t one of the men said “Your Majesty” to the girl? Wasn’t there a Princess Alexandrina? Was this the princess she’d heard her father once discussing with Jhosha Bilram one night on the porch, her father breathing out the smoke from his pipe which hung around his head in the humid night air.

  “Poor little mite. She’s just a bit younger than Isabella …”

  Jhota Lal had sighed.

  “Small shoulders indeed for such a responsibility. Let us pray that those around her are trustworthy.”

  The door handle turned with an expensive click. Isabella pulled the cord of her dressing gown tighter with her good hand. A blonde head and blue eyes peered around the door.

  “Oh, you are awake. I was right. Everyone said you’d sleep until lunchtime and to leave you be, but I was worried you’d wake and not know where you were.”

  Next to Lily, Isabella thought this girl had one of the kindest faces she’d ever seen. She was richly dressed in a blue wool sailor suit, the skirt thick with petticoats, and her straight blonde hair was pulled back from her face with a dark-blue silk band the same colour as her eyes. Her nose was straight and regal and her mouth wide and inclined to laughter, but Isabella caught a shadow on this beautiful countenance and she narrowed her eyes.

  The girl came over to Isabella.

  “How is your poor arm?”

  Isabella looked down at it.

  “It’s a bit sore, to be honest.”

  The girl nodded her head.

  “I am not surprised. You gave it the most ghastly wrench to stop my horse and it looked pretty nasty when the doctors were bandaging it.”

  “Did I faint? I can’t remember anything.”

  The girl sat on the bed, happily prepared to recount everything.

  “After saving my life, you fainted as my man was trying to give you some money. Personally, I thought your arm was broken. Then there was a bit of a scuffle because your friends wanted to take you home with them and I wanted to bring you back here, for I should never have forgiven myself if you had not been mended well. And though your friends were kind and well-meaning …” She paused, embarrassed. “I’m not sure they could have afforded the doctors that we could.”

  Isabella smiled.

  “No, probably not.”

  “So,” the girl continued, “we brought you back here by carriage. Two doctors attended to your arm and my maid changed you. You did not stir once and I was terribly worried, but my doctor said this was normal for someone who’d been living a …” Here she paused again. “Living a difficult life on the streets.”

  Isabella coloured.

  “I don’t live on the streets. I do have a home. It might not be as grand as this, but it’s still a home.”

  Now it was the girl’s turn to go pink.

  “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Of course you have a home. I didn’t mean to presume … It’s just you are quite thin and, er, grubby, and we all just assumed –“

  “Well, don’t,” snapped Isabella. Who did this girl think she was? So what if she did live on the street? What had it to do with this girl who clearly had never gone hungry in her life?

  The girl hung her head.

  “Sorry.” Isabella looked at her suspiciously. “You’ve got good friends, too,” the girl continued quickly. “They put up a real fight when we were putting you in the carriage. The little one broke one of my guard’s boots by kicking it.” Isabella smothered a grin. “I promised them I would return you, good as new, when your arm had been seen to. The older boy said he’d be back this afternoon to check you were all right.”

  Isabella frowned.

  “Did I sleep all night long?”

  The girl nodded.

  “I had someone bring you some breakfast in case you woke and I checked on you last night, but you were fast asleep. You must have been more tired than you realised.”

  “No wonder I was so hungry.” Isabella gestured toward the table. “The scones were delicious. Thank you.”

  The girl looked pleased, her embarrassment evaporating.

  “Oh, good, I’m so glad.”

  To Isabella, the girl’s face looked as if she actually were, and Isabella found herself warming to her. She walked over to the bookcase and took down the book from earlier.

  “And this. Is this yours?”

  The girl came and stood at her shoulder, and Isabella caught the scent of roses.

  “Yes. My father gave it to me when I was born.”

  “So your name is Alix?”

  “Yes. My full name is Alexandrina Hanover, but it’s such a mouthful everyone just calls me Alix. Your name is Isabella, isn’t it? The older boy told me.” She went pink again. “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” Now Isabella threw back her head and laughed, and it was Alix’s turn to look cross. “Well, he is. You’d have to have a white stick to think he wasn’t.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so,” said Isabella.

  “Oh, no, please don’t.” Alix looked horrified.

  Isabella smiled.

  “All right, I won’t. It would only make his big head even bigger than it already is.”

  “Is he your brother?”

  “No, but to me he is family.”

  “And the little boy and girl?”

  “The same, really. We live together.” Isabella chose not to say any more. She didn’t want to risk telling someone of the location of their den and all their stolen loot.

  “With your parents?”

  “No. We are orphans, so we take care of each other. That’s why they gave your soldiers such a hard time. They will be worried about me, in the same way I would be worried about them if our positions were reversed.”

  Alix’s face softened.

  “I’m sorry. Isabella is such a grand name … for someone who has to live by themselves.”

  Isabella smiled.

  “According to my father, my grandmother loved posh names and made my mother promise, if I were a girl, I would be named Isabella.”

  “And if you’d been a boy?”

  Isabella wrinkled her nose.

  “Edwin.”

  Alix smiled, eyes dancing.

  “You had a lucky escape, then. Maybe I shall call you Edwina instead.”

  “Not if you want to live,” Isabella replied.

  Alix laughed out loud, and put her hand on Isabella’s good shoulder.

  “It’s so nice to have someone my age to talk to. It can get very dull around here.”

  “Alix, I’m sorry, but where are we? Also, I can’t find my bag and I wondered if you knew what had happened to it?”

  Alix smiled, a hesitant smile, as if she had news that she felt might not be well-received.

  “Sorry, of course. Your bag was taken by the littler of the two boys and, I suppose it’s not obvious, but you are in Kensington Palace. I am Princess Alexandrina. I probably should have told you this before.”

  Alix looked so fed up with this admission, Isabella couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  “I thought you were when I saw what your father had written in your book. Don’t worry. I remember my father’s soldiers talking of the little princess. They must have meant you.”

  Isabella’s words were gentle, but tears still sprang to Alix’s eyes and her face clouded over.

  Isabella found herself taking Alix’s hand.

  “I know how you feel. My father is dead, too, and my friend, Abhaya, who raised me. You were right. I am alone. No matter how hard I try to pretend I am not.” Isabella sighed. “Still, I have a plan and I hope to return to my home soon.”

  Alix looked up through her tears.

  “Where is your home?”

  “India.”

  Alix smiled and rubbed her eyes with her sleeve.

  “How romantic,” she said.

  So for the next hour, Isabella gave in to her homesickness and told Alix of her life at home; of her dear father, of Abhaya and her cooking, and Bumblebee the pony, of scorching sunsets and purple nights and finally of the dreaded cholera and all the things that had brought her here to this place.

  “No wonder you want to go home,” said Alix in a small voice. “It sounds like paradise.”

  Isabella smiled.

  “Well, not always … I used to get in trouble from time to time,” she said with a mischievous grin, “and I didn’t have a mother, either, but with Abhaya, I didn’t really ever need one.” Her face fell. “I can’t believe she’s no longer there.”

  An Abhaya-shaped hole yawned before her. Alix thrust a cup into her hand, filled with a steaming sweetness. So engrossed was Isabella in her story she hadn’t noticed a maid bringing in hot chocolate.

  She wondered why she’d told this girl so much? Was it because they shared the same loss? Or was it Alix’s kind face, and that shadowy hint of things not quite as they should be, which made Isabella think Alix had her own secrets, and was therefore safe to talk to?

  Both probably, Abhaya would have said.

  “You could come and visit me one day, if you would like to?” Isabella offered shyly.

  Alix’s face lit up.

  “I would love to.” She leaned forward and pulled a fabric bell-pull. “Now, how about a bath?”

  Isabella puffed out her cheeks and blew out.

  “I suppose I should, but what about my arm?”

  Alix looked at her.

  “Your arm will be fine. You have to have lunch with everyone so you’d better be clean for that. There’s already been a huge fuss about you being here. Let’s not give them any more ammunition than we need.”

  Isabella perked up. She liked a good fight.

  “Who’s everyone?”

  Alix stood up, brushing down her skirt.

  “You’ll see,” she said darkly.

  Isabella lay in the scented hot water for as long as the little maid, Bea, would allow her. She liked Bea, who didn’t flinch even when the water turned dark as they washed her hair, which took three soapings before it would lather.

  “Shall we get out now, miss? Here, step into this towel. Mind yourself now, though. Don’t bang that arm.”

  Isabella wobbled as she stepped from the giant copper tub into a sheet of thick cotton. She hadn’t realised how weak she was, and she was glad there was going to be lunch. She’d feel better afterwards.

  Back in the blue-carpeted bedroom, Bea sat her down at the dressing table. Isabella pulled a face. This really wasn’t her cup of tea, and she imagined her father’s expression if he could see her now. He’d be laughing fit to burst.

  She eyed the lacy petticoats on the bed.

  “Bea, do you know what’s happened to my old clothes?”

  “Yes, miss, they’ve gone to be laundered, though whether they’ll survive the process remains to be seen. I think it was dirt keeping them together.”

 

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